You Need Help
by leftarrow
Summary: Draco’s exgirlfriend accuses him of domestic abuse. He gets sent to anger management, the doctor in charge being none other than the new success, Hermione Granger. Rated T for strong language.
1. Anger Management

**A/N: **Review. My rule! I definitely want more, but I won't update unless I get at least two. So read it, and enjoy it or not, tell me what you think of my writing!

**Disclaimer: **J.K. Rowling owns the characters, the places, the everything...most of them. I might make up a few.

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_Unbelievable! _Draco thought angrily. **_Unbelievable!_**

He had recently been dumped by his girlfriend of five months. Being dumped was not even what irked him. It was how she had done it— during his coming-of-age ceremony, in front of everyone he had ever met. _That insufferable laughter..._In the weeks that passed, and this too made him completely fed up with her, she had been legally aggressive, and with the most ridiculous complaints. Suing him for taking her non-existent possessions, she had gained the title of "the Girl who cried Thief". I personally did not call her that, but my mom always asked what The-Girl-Who-Cried-Thief had been up to.

Bringing him out of his reverie was the judge, who said wearily: "Draco Malfoy, what _do_ you have to say for yourself?" Draco looked at her lazily, going for his cool composition act, and replied "Not guilty-y-y" he said through a perfect but fake yawn. Trying to make it seem as though this was no big deal was hard work; if he lost this case, he would be down thousands of galleons and spend a month or so in Azkaban. Truthfully, once they sent you there, you're damaged so bad you might as well just stay there or get the kiss. So that was what Draco's cool poise was pitted up against.

"I object!" was shrieked from across the room. The mouth responsible belonged to a tan oriental girl with perfect complexion, beautifully slanted eyes, thin hourglass figure, and the shiniest, smoothest, blackest hair Draco had ever had the pleasure to run through his fingers. So you see why he was attracted to her. He had been planning on breaking it off soon though with her anyway, because she was, in addition to gorgeous, utterly insane.

Her lawyer, a chubby man who reeked of wet dog, shushed her, saying, "Not yet."

The judge nodded, before saying, "Mr. Malfoy is here under charges of domestic abuse." This was a new one. She'd never accused him of this before. He had never done it of course. To ruin such a stunning face and body, well, he just couldn't have brought himself to do it, no matter how many times the girl had driven to want to pull his own dazzling hair out.

The judge continued, "The evidence, please?"

The elegant female teen, named Chuang-Mu (which ironically meant goddess of the bedroom and sexual delights), across the room reached a hand to her hobo sack, sequin-y purse (Draco had never been able to wrap his mind around how much she adored the shapeless bag) and pulled out a small blue box. Draco recognized it as the magical version of a tape recorder—it could store days' worth of sound in its five inches by five inches area, you could select a "file" by scrolling through it with your wand, the newer, more highly developed versions could be enchanted to only store or play for certain wands, it had a sound so clear you could imagine the voice being live and in the room, and had the most advanced wand/remote method to hit the streets.

"Behold," said Chuang-Mu, sneering. Had she not attended Cheng Fu, the Chinese school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and had learned her skill at Hogwarts, she would have definitely been in Slytherin. Her last name, Mat Chinoi, even meant Serpent Goddess. A flick of her ebony wand caused the box's lid to slide back, revealing a small pair of speakers. With its crystal-clear pitch, it sounded, "...I love to push you around and beat you, you know that—" in Draco's voice. She flipped her wand again and it stopped.

Draco looked incredulous, then replied in flabbergasted voice, "Oh for god's sake, I object! That has _obviously_ been modified!"

The judge sighed; _I am way too qualified to be dealing with this. Stupid teenagers. Wretched new generation..._ "Elucidate."

"Well, it's well-known that even the cheapest and oldest models of these voice recorders can be blended and screwed around with, the same way you can make a collage of pictures. I probably said 'I love you' and 'beat Gryffindor' and things like that."

Chuang-Mu—who had remained silent after her proof was displayed—burst into tears and cried, "You never said you loved me! You never did! You mean, you mean..." she hiccupped, "you mean little bastard!" Her mother, who was biased against all Caucasians, glared at me and hugged her sobbing daughter.

"Hey, you little bitch! What the hell are you talking about? I'm not even a bastard in the literal sense! I was nothing but nice to you for five fucking months, and then you go ahead and drop me and sleep with _Blaise Zabini_? What the fuck? So much for 'staying off your kind forever', you eccentric, bisexual whore!"

"Mr. Malfoy! No matter what Ms. Mat Chinoi said, your vulgar words _are not_ appropriate." This was echoed by Chuang-Mu's entire family, all thirty-three of them, who chorused 'rude', 'stupid', 'inappropriate', and things like that.

Draco gaped at the judge. "_She_ called _me_ a fu—...a bastard!"

The judge sighed dramatically. "This...this case...ends here. Ms. Mat Chinoi, with us today we do not have the proper equipment to test and see whether your evidence is actually true. We cannot sue Mr. Malfoy on these conditions." Collective gasps from that side of the room and several curses. "However, Mr. Malfoy will not be getting completely off the hook." The Mat Chinoi side of the room huffed and guffawed happily, while the Malfoy side, which had been respectively silent up to this point, roared with anger.

"You can't be on the fence about this!"

"Draco here was honest, and this oriental bitch is just trying to mooch money off him!"

"You already decreed that you cannot sue on these conditions, why punish him? What are you talking about?"

The judge hammered the mallet down on the wooden board. Even in wizard courts, it was used—mostly just because it was good stress reliever for the judge on a particularly vexing case such as this.

Silence.

"As I was saying," the judge continued crossly, eyeing the Malfoy side of the room, which looked back insolently, "Mr. Malfoy will be punished. Not because of charges of abuse, but because of his temper. Though we cannot be sure he actually harmed Ms. Mat Chinoi, his anger flares are not safe. He is sentenced to attend anger management classes until his mental doctor says that he is healthy and safe for the world again. To make sure he does not _cuss out_ at people, or physically harm them, he will be boarding at an apartment near the institution during his recovery. Later you can discuss whether you want private or group help lessons. Court is adjourned."

And with that, the Mat Chinoi family stalked out of the room, some of them content, some of them angry, some of them staring cross-eyed at their pinkies (_So that's where she gets it from_).

Most of the Malfoy family stormed out of the room, Draco's biggest cousin actually breaking the door hinges by slamming the door on his way out.

Lucius and Narcissa lingered at the back, talking with Draco's lawyer. Draco, still at the table in front, could still not accept this. The trial had lasted fifteen minutes. _Fifteen minutes_ with her, and he was ready to strangle something. He was going to have to spend the next few months or so in a shitty apartment, no doubt, spending every day with a bunch of crazies who would probably try to strangle him. Or rocked back and forth, very quiet, until someone said something slightly mean to them, in which case they leapt up from their chair trying to beat that person to a pulp. Draco had seen it happen. He had toddler cousins.

Draco shivered at the thought, and sent death glares at the wall until his eyes stung. _Really, that stupid wall. Looking at me like it's got a right to laugh. Listen to it! Oh no, talking to inanimate objects...damn Chuang-Mu...but this one is special! This inanimate object is staring at me; I swear. Oh the audacity..._

At which point Draco got a hold of himself and walked over to his parents.

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**A/N: **So, what did you think? Tell me! If you loved it, yay! If you hated it, yay! If you aren't sure but want to review anyway, _yay_! 


	2. New Bunch of Crazies

**A/N:** Thanks for reviewing! Enjoy the chapter! And if something was slightly confusing—and this is a note for every chapter—review telling me so I can fix it!

**Disclaimer**: You know how it goes: I own nothing. 

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**another A/N: **The rest of you can get cookies too, just not as many. Okay?

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The alarm went off with a persistent beep at a reasonable 7:00 on October 23rd. Hermione groaned and shifted around under her massive comforter, slapping at air, trying to find the clock. She finally found the annoying machine and turned it off. She threw the covers off, and rubbing her eyes, tried to get out of the full-size bed. Instead she stumbled, her sleepy face falling on the ground.

"Aaargh," she grumbled. She held her hands out in front of her like a blind person, and walked tiredly to the shabby bathroom with the chipped paint.

Up until two nights ago, she had been living in a penthouse in the British wizard's equivalent of California. Mod furniture and decorations for the living and dining room, stainless steel bathroom and kitchen, insane décor for her room, smooth plumbing, lots of space, and lots of sun.

For three years, she had gone to Psychology School and had a job as an intern for the renowned Dr. Schubert. The man was a genius; he could read people, console them, and start their recovery within a day. If they ended up rich and happy, they tended to send him gifts. A bonus to the job. Other than his thick German accent, Hermione had adored him and wanted to be like him in every way. Except for the whole being-an-old-man part.

And he had been very fond of her, partly because she showed a great aptitude for helping people and was a very eager and hard-working person—she moved from intern to assistant and then to a full-fledged psychologist. She loved her job, and her life as well. It was, pretty much, perfect. Voldemort was literally history—kids in school were learning about him in their textbooks.

_-Flashback-_

_Harry and Ron had gone to Hogsmeade a year ago_ (wow, was it really that long ago?) _for what they had thought would be a relaxing vacation from Auror training. But from the moment they walked into Diagon Alley, they knew something was up. There were hardly any people there, and the few that were there were rushing towards the exit. Many people told them to leave right now, but refused to let them know what it was they should be so afraid of! So, being Gryffindors, they pulled out their wands and went into stealth mode. _

They had found hundreds of Death Eaters making a racket in the Three Broomsticks. The few people who were brave and stupid enough to walk in there seemed to be being tortured. Harry and Ron conveniently forgot that they were going to be going in there, too.

_They opened the door quietly, and tightened their grip on their wands as they saw in the far corner, under a door opening, Voldemort. He was surveying the room with unendurable amusement, Harry thought. He got out of his crouching position, Ron behind him for the mere sake of not looking like a coward; but personally, he thought they were going to die and Harry was being a totally dumb cunt just standing up like that._

_The room seemed to have been struck with a huge Silence Charm. The Crucio's were stopped, and even the victims were silent observers. Every one of the Death Eaters looked from Harry and Ron, to Voldemort, and back again. Finally, Voldemort smiled that creepily dominant smile that he liked to use before he killed someone, then sighed._

"_I suppose you're wondering why I chose this place for a meeting?" Voldemort asked. "Oh, and don't worry; I'm not being rambling because I'm too conceited to think that you could get away. All of my...accomplices have their wands out ready to stun you—if need be, of course." Dozens of hands whipped into robes and got out wands at this moment.  
_

"_No, we didn't wonder." Ron said through gritted teeth. "And we weren't _worrying_." Harry said with a glare and just as severe of an oral issue as his redette friend. (**A/N: **We have brunettes, and blondes, but nothing fun for redheads. So I changed it.)_

"_Well, I'll tell you anyway. We were throwing a party," he paused to "hmph" indignantly here, "when a bunch of these people," he indicated the various still-twitching people on the ground, "interrupted!" And he paused, glancing around the room again with an inhumane smile._

_Harry and Ron looked around as well. They both had noticed the smell of liquor in the air as soon as they had entered, and now they saw smashed bottles of Firewhiskey littering the floor._

_Voldemort started walking towards them; very liquid-like, as if floating. Ron's muscles seized up. _Oh my god, I'm going to die_, he thought_._ In contrast, Harry was feeling pumped up with adrenaline. He made his second asinine movement of the day; he started lunging for Voldemort, watching out for the abovementioned bottles. In shock, and still woozy from the alcohol, the Death Eaters watched as though they were viewing a stress-free chess game—rather than the possible demise of everything they believed in. Perfect time to be drunk, huh?_

_Total checkmate as Voldemort dodged out of Harry's way, losing his balance and falling hard on his ass. He screamed terribly, and lunged up from his spot to stare incredulously at his butt, which had huge glass fragments lodged in it. He couldn't gaze too long, because his feet were covered only with a thin shoe, and also impaled by the glass. The glass almost coated the floor._

_Harry had stopped running; he watched in morbid fascination as Voldemort pounced this way and that, trying to evade the glass, but landing on it every time. The time that most imprinted itself in Harry's mind was when Voldemort fell flat on his face. Ron, too, had seen the excessively large chunk of glass, and Voldemort's shriek of pain assured them that he had definitely come into contact with it. _

_Bleeding all over, and whimpering uncontrollably with horror, he pulled the remnant of an alcoholic container _out_ of his body, probably beyond feeling the extreme pain, and tore open his jacket. Harry and Ron even winced, as the bloodstains shown through, deepening and spreading every second, but that was not what Voldemort appeared to be looking for. He pulled out a snake's old skin from his pocket, which had a deep rip in it—the last Horcrux._

-End Flashback-

Back to Hermione and her wonderful life, it was just that. Her best friends were alive and safe, the whole Wizarding World was safer in general, and she had a job! Most of the time, her cases were just depressed teenagers who were over-dramatic about all of their problems. And though she was kind most of the time, she did not hesitate to tell them how unbelievably selfish and stupid they were being. Somehow, she was respected for that. Once they got over their theatrical issues, most of them were glad she hadn't been all "You can tell me, it's okay. You can trust me." She knew what thoughts went through a teenager's head when they heard those words. "_You have got to be kidding me"._

During these cases, they visited once a week or once a day or something like that. But sometimes she got people with serious issues—anger, people whose depression was justified and making them consider suicide, and things like that. For these cases, she was forced to live in a special apartment _with_ these people, to make sure they didn't do anything rash, weren't abusive, took their medicine, and practiced a good life even at home.

She referred, with her friends only though, to her new clients as "the new bunch of crazies". This would go on for the first few weeks, then it would move to "crazy number one" etc., then "the one with red hair" or "the one who drinks out of the toilet" etc., and finally she got down to names.

She knew their names all along; but having nicknames was just more fun and a better transition (in addition to a stress reliever when their odd habits drove her to need counseling herself). Her secretary owled her every time she received a new client, and a week ago she had gotten the message:

Ms. Hermione Granger,  
On October 15th, five new patients were registered at the firm. They were sent to you—here are their names and a brief summary of their various ailments:

-Sheila Adams: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder  
-Mark Bowler: Severe depression  
-Draco Malfoy: Anger Management problems  
-Doug Marshalls: Drug Addict—Heroin  
-Laura Medgaus: Bulemia

Please move into Apartment 125B on Loubet Street in London by October 23rd to meet your patients.

"WOAH. Draco Malfoy? Hmm...anger management issues? HAH! Knew he'd always come to it. Oh, no, no, I can't badmouth them. I don't know what made him act that way. Or any of them." Hermione had muttered, thinking with her mouth, as finished the letter in her bathroom, while taking a relaxing bath. She loved the funky scents and special effects for baths that you could get at Diagon Alley.

At the time being, she was taking a quicker and less unwinding shower. There wasn't any room for a full-out bath in this apartment. She had broken off of Dr. Schubert's firm and created her own when she became the laughingstock for an entire month after showing up at a meeting completely unprepared, with coffee stains on her shirt. She couldn't live it down. But her new firm, while it provided enough for her to have a great home for its workers, did not have enough money stored up yet for the occasional renting of public housing.

The best-quality dwelling they could find the money for was hardly perfect. It was in an slightly isolated place—but that was one of its perks, sort of—and you had to let water run for at least fifteen minutes before it was warm—which was why when Hermione immediately stepped into the shower that morning, a shriek reverberated through the house.

Also, the first time you turned on a faucet if it had not been used in the last twenty-four hours, it came out as this puke-colored gunk. Hermione meant to ask the landlady what this came from, but stopped herself—if she found out the real reason, evidence from Hermione's past would suggest that she would be out of that place before the woman had closed her mouth. Just let it be...she had thought.

Every single one of the rooms was the same: brown carpet with stains of god-knows-what in scores of places, beige walls, white ceiling with dim light full of dead bugs. The paint, the landlady had said proudly, was the same as it had been when her great-great-grandfather had painted it in 1897. That was all well and good, maybe, but the fact was that you could see definite termite holes beyond the badly mended flaked paint.

Hermione reprimanded herself for letting her company fall this far behind, so that this was the only place available. Looking for the silver lining though, she noted that there was a free breakfast consisting of eggs, bacon, cereal, and that sort of thing.

Five minutes later, and shaking, Hermione stepped out of the shower. She held her towel tightly to her as she made her way back to her private room—oh yes, another wonderful part about this residence was the communal bathroom—and whipped it off as she pulled on the outfit she had picked out last night. She wanted to look good to make a good first impression, so she couldn't look trashy, but she didn't want to look like a total prude, so she had picked a pair of normal blue jeans, a low-cut white shirt, and her favorite black jacket. The back of it had the Chasers swerving around and throwing the Quaffle. Obviously a gift from Ron.

"Correctio Onis Caesaries" she waved her wand over her already-frizzing hair, and away went the poof and the curl and the ugly! Even though the spell that is derived from the latin words correction onis which meant straightening out, improvement, or amendment and also the latin word caesaries which means hair, a head of hair even though there were many other choices that the wizard who invented the spell could have used, such as capillatus which meant hairy, or having hair or even cincinnatus which meant having curled hair but even though that would be quite useful for Hermione, sometimes people with pretty straight hair use straighteners. Wait, where was this going? Oh yes, even though the spell is longwinded—not unlike the explanation for it—it was quite useful, and soon Hermione was up-and-at-'em, and looking quite booty-full (**A/N: **Yeah, yea I know how to spell "beautiful". But jeez, this IS my fanfiction.)

She went down for breakfast at 7:30. She found her landlady, Mrs. Depilo, a sixty-year-old widow, making a surprisingly scrumptious meal of blueberry pancakes with syrup, orange juice, and sprinkles—Hermione's favorite part of the meal.

Hermione's patients were coming at lunchtime, and she could hardly think of anything to do. She had spent the whole of yesterday moving her things and planning out what she planned to do with her new roommates.

She was hardly ever nervous about meeting these people; it was living with them when she started to feel weird around them. But Draco Malfoy...she had always told herself she was better than him, to take the higher road, but it was so hard sometimes. She remembered way back into her school years when he had humiliated her by enlarging her teeth, and he hadn't even gotten into trouble. And there were so many times where her body and mind argued about whether to ignore him, strangle him, or to run away crying. Usually Harry and Ron had just hexed him for her. She smiled thinking of them. Her smile faded when she thought of how she would be living in close quarters with this enemy, and her best friends wouldn't even be able to visit her with them around, let alone jynx one of them.

And in here for anger management, it was still a shock. More of a shock that he ever got caught for it. His parents, she had thought, would be able to vouch for him and get him out of trouble. Another spot where Hermione assured herself she rocked people's socks—she had a great job, and was self-successful, and Draco was sure to be driven here by his pompous parents.

She tried to rid herself of these feelings. God, it's a terrible thing to be locked up with someone who you're already disposed to hate! No, Hermione! She shook herself, slamming her fist against the table, and so shocked Mrs. Depilo that she jerked the pan in her hands, and the pancake she was cooking flipped into the air, conveniently landing right back onto the pan.

"That was lucky!" Mrs. Depilo said, and laughed hoarsely, like she smoked a lot.

It being in her nature, Hermione decided to spend the next few hours reading a book she had picked up at the library last week. It was a book she had been swooning over for a while, but she had been saving up for a gift for someone else. Finally, she decided what the hell. She could save up later. She was going to be with strangers for a while; she needed a present, too!

At twelve on the dot, the doorbell rang.

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**A/N:** Tada to my wonderful reviewers. I love you to pieces. I slacked my homework just to finish this for you. –smiles big smile- 


	3. I'm Alive

**Disclaimer**: J.K. Rowling owns. heck, she PWNS!

**miraclesomajic: **aaaaawh, thanks!

**siriusfanatica: **I have some ideas in mind, if you really mean it. –wink-

**mrs skywalker: **I'll try not to. Hair?

**darkmoon-on-dragonwings:** I'm so delighted that you like my story. I'm quite fond of it, too. 

**Broken Rain:** sings Hallelujah

**Slinky-and-the-BloodWands:** Hehe, thanks!

**A/N:** I should have mentioned this before: if you have any of these diseases or problems, a relative does, please don't take offense at this story. Here's a quick refreshment on the people's reasons for going to Hermione, just so you know who the people are and stuff. (I changed Doug's a bit) I kind of just added this so that you all would know that I had NOT abandoned this story or anything.

_-Sheila Adams: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder  
-Mark Bowler: Severe depression  
-Draco Malfoy: Anger Management problems  
-Doug Marshalls: Drug Addict—Heroin  
-Laura Medgaus: Bulimia

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_

Sheila Adams had been a long-term patient at Saint Mungo's, but her family recently decided that she needed more personal care. So they sent an application to Hermione's place of work, and bing-bang-boom there she was, in a limo at 11:57, waiting outside the apartment. Her aggravated family and chauffeur (and Sheila as well, though she wasn't aggravated for the same reasons) had been waiting there for five minutes. To Sheila's way of thinking, it wouldn't be appropriate to even step up to the door until 11:59. Then, once every one of her three watches said that it was noon, she was free to ring the doorbell. To the family and chauffeur, the sooner she stepped out of the car and they drove off, the better.

Sheila was a strangely beautiful sort of person. She had long golden hair that was flying perfectly in the wind. It was sort of unnatural, like the way model's hair just "happens" to be soaring spectacularly behind them, the monster-sized fan conveniently out of our view. She was wearing casual jeans, and a plain white T-shirt. She wore a huge trench coat over this though, with yellow rubber gloves coming out of each pocket.

Sheila rang the doorbell, and a very composed Hermione stepped out of the hallway and greeted Sheila with a warm, "Hello! You're Sheila, correct? Hi, I'm Hermione." Sheila smiled and nodded, but didn't shake Hermione's potentially-contaminated hand. She visibly flinched when she stepped into the apartment, and stared disgustedly at everything she saw on her way to the kitchen.

_Maybe this wasn't the best choice for a living space for an OCD patient..._Hermione thought she sat Sheila down and got her a glass of water. "So, we'll just chat a bit while we wait for the others to get here." As Hermione racked her brain for interesting conversation starters, the only thing going through Mrs. Depilo's head was that maybe she wouldn't have to do as much housework with one of these cleanliness-obsessed people.

A few minutes later—two minutes and thirty-five seconds to be exact (_Late sods..._-Sheila)—Mark Bowler could be seen standing outside the apartment, knocking dejectedly on the door. Hermione knew who he was—since she'd received pictures of them all—and put out her friendliest, kindest smile as she opened the door. She was met with a sullen expression that added years to the man's face with every passing minute. It practically wore off on Hermione. But she welcomed him as warmly as possible into the house, trying to keep her smile from looking too fake. Mark still had yet to say anything.

He was a big sort of man, not exactly fat, but the kind of person who was doomed to never lose his baby fat. He had a mess of dark brown hair on his head, coming down to around his large ears. Not handsome at all. His face, too, was chubby, and he had a long, hooked witch's nose, complete with a wart at the tip. It was easy to see why he was depressed. Imagine the teasing as a child...

Once again, Hermione sat her new roommate down, offered refreshments, and attempted to revive the conversation. These two were going to be difficult to get out of their ways. The only comments that Sheila made were "How many times do you clean the sink?" and such. And the only input to the conversation that Mark made was, "It's pointless," and things like that, that made a few adorable chipmunks outside hang themselves.

The third member of their party, Doug Marshalls, was barely at the door when Hermione had opened it; she was that desperate to get away from the horrible company of Sheila and Mark.

Doug Marshalls was a fairly striking young man of nineteen, but years of drug abuse had made some of his features—eyes, hair, nails, and such—slightly distorted and not quite as pleasing to the eye as they once were. He had ridiculously orange hair, it reminded Hermione of Ron and almost put the Weasley name to shame. But it was made greasy with lack of care. He was oddly tall—six foot four--, but hunched over so his height only averaged about five foot nine. It was as if he was always bent over something—Hermione stopped herself from imagining what.

Doug said, with glazed eyes, "You've got a few dead chipmunks in the front lawn." Hermione's smile faded into an incredulous position as she imagined this.

"O-oh...thanks...hi..." Hermione couldn't quite manage to regain her smile as she beckoned Doug into the apartment. Doug looked longingly at a bowl of sugar, and Hermione quickly ushered him past it and introduced him to Mark and Sheila. Doug appeared friendlier—or, at least, more talkative—than the other two. Still, Hermione couldn't wait for the others to get here—promptly, she prayed—so that she could give the newcomers a tour of the apartment, eat some dinner, then send them off to their rooms, to analyze them and make plans. She loved plans; even when they were a tad far-fetched, if she was feeling nervous or upset she could trust them to make her feel secure.

After a few minutes, the doorbell rang again, and waiting at the door was an awfully frail twenty-year old. Her hair was a dull brown; her clothes were boring, solid colors—beige, by the way—and in short, she was a very plain person. But she had this "potential" look. Her mother often referred to her as a "flower in the winter". Her hair, though currently in an ultra-listless state, had the look that at one point, it had been rich and gorgeous, and with proper care, could leap back into that condition. Such was the case with the rest of her. Her clothes were not form fitting, and you could tell that with an expert outfit (and the latterly hair) she'd be a regular model. But of course, the model!Laura was not the Laura Medgaus that was waiting on Hermione's doorstep.

Her sunken eyes did not light up when Hermione received her gaily into the house. She mumbled hi, and sort of tried to be pleasant. But this was so not where she wanted to be. She didn't have anywhere to go—no boyfriend, no job either—but this was degrading. She was going to have to spend eternity—or so it seemed—with a bunch of lunatics. LUNATICS...she started mumbling to herself, as she walked ahead of Hermione and into the kitchen, where Mark and Doug were calmly discussing the mating habits of Martians. Hermione was not aware. She had completely zoned out.

She was trying to calm down. It was all right. This was going to be a placating place; a comfort zone; a happy place.

Draco Malfoy could be seen through the window in the dining room approaching the door. All of her school-time apprehension, hatred, and even fear came rushing up her throat as he knocked on the door. Her head pounded.

She shook it vigorously, swiped a tissue from the dining room, and dabbed her face. She pulled a hand through her hair, exhaled, and then opened the door.


	4. Lunch

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns everything except my brain. But she can buy it on Ebay if she really wants it...

**Aeris1172:** haha you bet he's going to get excited and do Hermione! Just not yet. Teehehe. Enjoy!

**A/N:** My internet was broken for the longest time and I started roleplaying. It's a different type of writing, so it was (is?) hard to balance...sorry!...so here's the chappie! Er, it was going to be longer, but I wanted you guys to have something to read.

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Draco Malfoy wanted to die. Absolutely explode all over this stupid apartment. Spread his guts over this outrageous witch. He was seething on the inside, but because he planned to appear like a calm and collected person—and get out of this fucking _hellhole _as soon as goddamn possible—he smiled blithely as Hermione opened the door, and took a perverse satisfaction from her ill-hidden unhappiness.

"Hello Draco! It's so nice to see you again," Hermione sang, through forcefully unclenched teeth. She took note of his appearance, and noticed that he looked no worse the wear for having to be an adult. That is, he had no worry lines on his forehead, and he looked just as primped up and perfect as ever. Hermione secretly wished that his well-being was still in part (or completely) supported by his parents, just so she would have something over him and could gloat, even if just in private.

"Hello Hermione!" Draco said belatedly. He proceeded to give her a huge hug, demonstrating his five years' acting lessons to show Hermione that he was so much more in control than her, he could hide his hatred.

During this hug, Hermione had stood stock-still and currently wanted to slap that jerk's pompous face! Of course the hug was completely fake, but it had seemed so real, that it hurt her feelings. She just couldn't take the strangeness of it all and pulled Draco into an empty room to start the jousting that always aroused when they were near each other.

"For someone with anger issues, you sure smile and hug a lot. Sure you didn't come here just for the free food?" Hermione taunted.

"Mudblood, I don't need any free food. And I would rather eat slugs than be here right now. However, I couldn't find any. But I'm sure you have loads here...I'm sure you feel quite comfortable with them," Draco teased ruthlessly.

"This house is free of bugs, just so you know," Hermione said, hoping that was the case, "and you're going to be staying here until you get your attitude under control." She felt distinctly like a kindergarten teacher, her golden hair falling in ringlets around her curvaceous face, wild eyes staring incredulously at the pesky boy in front of her, violent ideas bombinating in her head.

From another room, a distant voice called "HerMIONE!" She made a disgusted noise, then stepped out of the room, motioning for Draco to follow. They walked in silence to the kitchen, Hermione's tight jeans tugging at her hips as she hurried ahead of Draco, trying to put on her Happy Face. For his part, the blond was just attempting to not look vicious.

The voice that had called was Mrs. Depilo, who was backed against the left wall of the kitchen, looking bewildered at Doug and Sheila. Doug would go around poking into everything white and powdery, and Sheila was trailing him, cleaning his wake ferociously.

When Hermione entered the room, they stopped their queer antics and sat reluctantly back down, their resistance withering under her severe look.

Remembering her pleasant façade, Hermione began, "Hi guys! This is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is Doug Marshalls," Hermione pointed discreetly to the man who was wiping sugar crumbs off of his pants, "Sheila Adams," she indicated the woman who was folding her yellow rubber gloves into her coat pocket, "Mark Bowler," she gestured at the guy who had his head laying torpidly on the table, "and this is Laura Medgaus." Hermione pointed to the girl who looked as though she should be in one of those C+ Muggle horror movies, coming at you saying "He was mine...MINE, and you stole him..." and proceeding to chop you into tiny bits. Though only Doug and Hermione would make that reference.

Hermione felt an insane urge to impress Draco. The woman (girl? it?) wanted him to recognize that she was building up a recuperation empire, and what was he probably doing all day long? Lazing around and ordering elaborate drinks from his house-elves. For once, she was definitely on the winning end (save having to lodge with Draco): the Light side won, running firm, good looks, brains, and many people – Muggle and Wizard alike – acknowledged her achievements. At that moment, she made a promise that she would make Draco see his misgivings, along with quelling his anger of course. Rule Number Something-Obscure was that one follow through on all goals, and seeing as Harry and Ron weren't anywhere in the vicinity, Hermione wasn't going to break any rules.

Draco couldn't believe this. He burst out laughing. These people were truly crazy, had actually serious issues and needed help, and here he was, wrongly accused of beating his girlfriend, and he was _stuck with them. _Maybe for months! Shit! He felt his irrational laughter end as abruptly as it had begun, and all eyes were on him.

"Er, thinking of a funny joke," Draco said in way of explanation for his odd behavior. It was obvious none of them believed him, but their lives seemed to consist of being made fun of or being treated as a strange creature, so they didn't really care about his amusement. Except for the ex-Gryffindor; she had been brought up on sincere politeness, and narrowed her eyes dangerously at him. Her lips puckered, the deflated pink balloons evincing agitation, and she thought vehemently: _He'd better not be mocking his roommates already..._

Hermione sat down calmly at the table, waiting for some conversational exchanges: she had this all planned out in her head, and if she executed it properly, they would all cooperate perfectly. The only fickle part was the actual carrying out of the ordeal. She stood up, a bit dejectedly, and pulled a chicken out of the oven. Hermione much preferred chicken cooked the absolutely Muggle way. She didn't _swish-and-flick_ any of the spices onto it, or to heat it up faster. She knew from experience that making it the Wizard way made it seem artificial and rubbery—at least to her Muggle mouth. Doug and Mark didn't react much to the chicken, but the other three were having serious dilemmas.

Draco was having a major fit about eating something from a Muggle device. He said as much. "I'm supposed to eat something drenched in Mud blood?" He was brutally hungry though, and that chicken really did smell good, so he leaned in and daintily picked up one up, not waiting for Hermione, who was grappling with the latch on the cabinet, to set down plates.

Sheila was about ready to have a heart attack, noticing the stains on the pot in which the chicken was cooked. She couldn't eat this...or maybe she could, her stomach told her. She hadn't eaten anything either. She had deliberated over eating this morning, thinking that because the meeting was at noon, lunch was to be served, and she didn't want to be too full to eat her host's food, consequently insulting her. But she also was not sure _if_ lunch was going to be served—she guessed it depended on the host's manners. In the end, Sheila had come to the conclusion that if she couldn't eat immediately, she would make something up later.

Laura was looking about nervously, her mousy hair drifting down to lay haphazardly in front of her steep nose. She wasn't sure if the others knew about her "problem", as her family and old counselor called it. The bulimic wasn't even sure if she could get away with not eating, if they knew about it or not. She hated it when people thought she had problems. Really, she only thought of it as perfectionism. She played with ideas to get out of it around in her mind, as Hermione graciously set plates in front of them, putting Draco's down just a little harder.

All around Laura, people were digging into their food with a vengeance, except for Mark, who would occasionally spear things in a particularly frightening way before airplaning them to his mouth. She had yet to do anything except push things around on her plate.

Hermione noticed this. Her scheme was not going exactly according to plan. She had hoped that Laura would worry over whether or not people knew about her situation enough to decide to simply stay on the safe side and eat something. According to her profile, Laura hated it when people judged her because of her bulimia. Of course, the rest of the people here (other than Mrs. Depilo) did not know what was wrong with everyone else, and were only told to be nice. But, in most cases, it was easy to tell the other patient's problem.

Part of Hermione's master plan included Laura eating something, and she realized she was going to have to interfere.

"So, how does everyone like the chicken? I made it myself," Hermione interrupted the silence.

There were mumbles of recognition and enjoyment, but Draco remained silent. The chicken was actually fabulous, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything akin to a compliment towards Hermione. Laura tried to say that she liked it, but Hermione cut her off.

"Oh, Laura, you haven't had any..." Hermione trailed off, and put on a face basking in disappointment. Laura knew that meant she had to come up with some sort of excuse, or tell the truth. As if she was going to do that!

"Oh, well, um, I'm vegetarian," Laura mentally complimented herself on this exquisite lie. Her stomach grumbled miserably.

"You should have told me! Here, at least drink your milk. You look starved," Hermione quipped.

Laura knew she was _not_ going to give up that easily—it was now no longer a race to staying trim, but a war with Hermione.

"Actually, I'm vegan. So I can't drink the milk either. Sorry," Laura amended. Once again, she praised herself on this great fib.

"That's a shame. But I'd be happy to whip up a salad for you!" Hermione got out her wand cheerfully, and recited a spell that placed a handsome bowl of salad in the center of the table. When Hermione found out she was a witch, her mom had instructed her to learn as many homemaking spells and charms as she could, saying it would help her later in life. It was paying off. The rest of the people sitting around the table had stopped eating, and were watching the conversation like a Quidditch game. Except for Mark and Draco – they were slowly checking their watches, wondering when they could head to their rooms and forget about how horrible this experience was. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, how _bland_.

Laura stared at the bowl of salad, despairing, until another idea popped into her head.

"What does this have in here?" she asked.

Hermione was shocked by this question, but by the time she got over the surprise and realized what this could lead to, she had already started talking, "Er, lettuce, tomatoes, onions—"

"Oh!" Laura interjected. "See, I'm allergic to onions! I really do apologize, but I'm going to have to skip lunch!"

Because Hermione had caught on earlier to what Laura intended to do, she had anticipated her response.

"You sure are going to be hard to cook for, but we'll work something out. However, you are monumentally lucky that I have lots of friends who are allergic to various things, and I've come up with the most fantastic dessert, that is as safe to eat as you can get!"

Laura could only go on with the fighting for so long—she got tired easily—and slowly nodded her head. Satisfied, Hermione winked, got up, and began working on this dessert.

It was really just a piece of chocolate cake with bits of strawberry mixed in and placed on top. But Hermione was not at all worried that Laura would have some sort of allergy attack; in her portfolio was all the medical information, and she didn't have any allergies. However, Hermione had let Laura's lie slide, convinced that by doing so she would win the battle.

When the plate with the cake was placed in front of her, Laura picked her fork up reluctantly. She was comforted by the thought that she could throw it up later, so she finished off her big slice. She was shocked at the pleased feeling in her stomach. It was freakishly foreign, after all the days of consistent hunger and need. She was ashamed at herself when she admitted that the feeling delighted her.

Unfortunately for Laura, Phase Two of Hermione's plan was about to begin.


End file.
